


His Best Friend's Wife

by Happy9450



Category: The Newsroom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-05
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 01:10:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4502025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Happy9450/pseuds/Happy9450
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was written for Liliacmermaid's July challenge.  Although it's not a romantic relationship, I wanted to explore further a friendship between Mac and Reese.  Sorkin gave them almost no scenes together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Best Friend's Wife

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Liliacmermaid](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Liliacmermaid).



“She’s out! Out! What do you mean she’s out? Out where?” Will McAvoy stood abruptly as if he were going to sprint to his office door, and his voice rose in pitch and volume with each exclamation. “She's nine days overdue! You know that, don't you?”

“Yes, Will. Everyone knows that.” Millie’s calm and disembodied voice came through the speakerphone on Will’s desk. “She told me that she was going out to do some shopping . . . .” Actually, MacKenzie had said that she was going to look for a birthday present for her husband, but Millie didn't think that Mac would appreciate her divulging that fact to the Birthday Boy himself. 

“Shopping . . . “ Will interrupted. “Shopping? Has she lost her mind?”

“Which one of the ‘I'm pregnant; I'm not . . . ‘ do you want to hear, Will? ‘I'm pregnant; I'm not a dementia patient’ has been getting a lot of recent play up here on our floor,” Millie said. “She's fine, Will. Reese is with her. There’s nothing to worry about.” Millie’s voice was soft and reassuring.

“I know, Millie,” Will replied on a long slow exhalation of breath he hadn't fully realized he was holding. “I know. I know. Another thing I know is that I'm driving her crazy.” Will heard Millie give a snorting chuckle. “It's just . . . what if something goes wrong? If anything happens to . . . .”

Now it was Milli’s turn to interrupt. “Nothing’s going to go wrong, Will. Nothing bad is going to happen. She's young and fit. My God, I wish I'd been in half the shape she’s in when I had my kids.”

Will didn't mention that Mac’s working with a trainer during her pregnancy and exercising daily was physical therapy prescribed by her doctors to combat the excruciating pain of the knife wound adhesions breaking up to accommodate her expanding uterus. Whatever the impetus, however, it was undeniable that at nine plus months pregnant, his wife was in kick-ass physical condition. In fact, they both were since he'd been working out right along with her to make sure that MacKenzie didn't push herself too hard. 

Well, that and his promise to her not to die. His physical fitness regime had started in the federal lock-up on his wedding night when he had looked at the tray delivered to his solitary confinement cell and realized that it was essentially a serving of cardio-vascular disease on a plastic plate. It had hit him there and then that he had so much to live for. MacKenzie. MacKenzie was his wife. He would wake up beside Mac for the rest of his life, and he had already squandered six years of those mornings. He could not afford to be profligate about time or his health any longer. Picturing what his arteries would look like after just a week’s worth of this crap, he'd eaten the over-cooked vegetables and mushy fruit, pushed the tray away, and reached for a cigarette. With the first lungful, he'd realized what chain-smoking in his cell for a week would do, and ground out the cigarette in the small metal prison ashtray. He hadn't had another until the night he learned that Charlie had died. 

Will hung up from the call with Millie lost in the memory of that night. Mac had caught him smoking out on the little balcony of the co-op they’d purchased overlooking the Chrysler Building. (“See, if we move here, Billy, I can still be MacKenzie from Mid-town.”) Although she loathed the habit, she'd said nothing, just pressed herself against his back, circled his waist with her arms, and waited for him to finish his cigarette. She'd been pregnant then and he hadn't known. Suddenly, he regretted exposing her to second hand smoke for the three days until Charlie’s funeral. 

Please, God, don't let anything happen to her when the baby comes, he prayed silently. If he lost her now, it wouldn't be a repeat of last time. There wasn't enough Effexor or Klonopin or Ativan in the world to get him through if he had to live without MacKenzie again. He would simply stop living too. 

His door opened and Jim Harper’s head appeared. Will jumped.

“What the fuck is this?” he bellowed. “Is there some rule that I don't know about that my EP doesn't have to knock on my door?”

“Yeah.” Jim smiled and nodded. “There is. Didn't you get the memo? Came from the President of the network. Went to everybody . . . .” Jim paused dramatically, his eyes still twinkling, “or, maybe, it was an email . . . .” They both laughed. “Come on, Will, rundown time.”

 

“What do you want to get for him?” Reese Lansing asked, as AWM 1 pulled up to the curb in front of a small storefront in Soho. A number of highly imaginative and unique jewelry pieces for both men and women sat in a modest window display. Knowing Mac’s issues with personal decision-making, Reese had given the driver an hour and a half break before he was due to pick them up again. Instead of answering, Mac winced, wrinkled her brow, sighed deeply and rubbed her back. 

Reese knew that Mac’s back had been bothering her all day because she had been squirming and unconsciously making little half-grunting, half-sighing sounds all through lunch. He'd taken her to The Palm, a favorite of hers from childhood, to try to sweet-talk her into giving her blessing to the first project of his new company, CDS Media Productions. Although Reese told most people that he just liked the sound of the initials, Mac knew that CDS stood for Charles David Skinner. The show that Reese was pitching was to be a joint venture with Sky-TV in the UK, an opinion, editorial, news and interview hybrid show, tentatively named, “Our American Cousin.” The host was to be none other than Will McAvoy, her husband.

“Oh, come on, Mac, you want to stick it in Pruitt’s eye as much as the rest of us,” he'd cajoled over their filet mignons. 

“And you know he's going to bust a gut when he gets wind of it,” she'd gestured back with her fork. “It's just . . . I don't know . . . I'd sort of like life during Charlotte’s first few weeks to be placid, not filled with Pruitt screaming at both Will and me, or worse, us dealing with the litigation he's sure to bring against Will.”

“It'll be fine, Mac. Pruitt can't touch him.”

“Now, where have I heard that before?” She mimed a deep ponder. “Ah, yes. Will McAvoy’s too big of a star to be held in contempt of court and sent to a federal lock-up.”

“You didn't hear that from me,” Reese countered.

“True enough,” she sighed, rubbing her back with her left hand. “You’re sure there’s nothing in his contract that Pruitt can use against him? The lawyers have looked at this?”

Reese nodded. “Starting with the one who signed the contract, Mac. And, Rebecca and Ben Pultzer and Marshall Fine. They all agree that the restrictions on Will’s appearing for anyone other than ACN are confined to the United States. The only ambiguity is whether that includes Puerto Rico, Guam and . . . the Marshall Islands, I think. It certainly doesn't include London and Manchester and Birmingham . . . “

“Except the one in Alabama.”

Don't worry, Mac. He's free to be on the air all over the UK. Pruitt won't be able to do a thing.” Reese paused. “Besides, Will really wants to do this.”

So Will can work for Reese and Leona again, Mac thought, not to mention that her own father was all over the idea like a rug, stuffing Will’s email inbox and sending daily text messages with ideas for shows. The Ambassador was already lining up potential guests on the quiet. 

“The name’s kind of tacky, don't you think?” she finally replied.

“What? You've got something against Mark Twain?” Reese grinned broadly, and then noticed that Mac was no longer paying attention to him. She was rubbing her back and her thoughts seemed to have turned inward. 

So when Reese again asked “Mac, are you okay?” at the curb outside the jewelry store, it was for about the tenth time that day. She gave him a jaundiced look that made him laugh despite his concern. 

“I've been saying, yes. But, define, okay, would you? My body’s been co-opted by an another being. I'm the size of a whale. I can't eat or breathe because my stomach’s being crushed up against my lungs. I have to pee every ten minutes. My back’s been killing me for a week.” She paused. 

“And just refresh my recollection about exactly why you’re doing this?” he asked, only half joking.

“The wages of overindulging in the pleasures of the flesh.” She aimed a sickly sweet smile in his direction. “And, I've never been happier in my life,” she added in a tone from which he couldn't discern whether she was serious or being ironic. “You know, Reese,” Mac continued, “I once asked my mother that question when she was pregnant with Tommy, and she told me that while parts of it were the pits, she was always excited to meet the people that she and my dad made because we were all so very interesting. I feel that way about Charlotte. I just can’t wait to meet her.”

Yes, Reese thought, he too was looking forward to getting to know this little person who had Will for a father and Mac for a mother. But, please God, just not now. Christ, MacKenzie was due to go into labor any second! Past due, actually. He felt like he was holding a hand grenade with the pin pulled out. When he shared this observation with Mac, she replied that she was certainly shaped rather like a grenade these days, but assured him that they would be fine.

Then she said, “Cuff-links, I think,” and it took Reese a second to realize that she was answering the question he posed when they’d gotten out of the car. “I don't really know. I want to see what the woman has in stock. Other than Sloan’s earrings, I've only seen her work online, but Sloan says that one has to touch her creations to really appreciate the texture and craftsmanship of the metal work. According to Sloan, Gillian Shepard is one of the most talented young jewelry designers to hit New York in a decade.” She took his hand and pulled him toward the shop doorway. “Come on. Let's go in. Don't look so somber, Reese. I promise I won't explode all over the floor or anything.”

One hour later and they had every pair of cuff-links Shepard had in stock as well as several men’s pinky rings laid out before them in two dark blue velvet lined display trays. Mac had narrowed her choices down to three of the pairs of cuff-links, with one of the rings as an outlier possibility. They had made little progress in the last fifteen minutes. 

Suddenly, Mac grunted and tensed. Reese saw her eyes widen slightly, and then her brow furrowed as her breath rushed out with a whooshing sound. “I wonder,” she said turning to Gillian Shepard, “if you have a WC . . . a washroom . . . that I might use?” 

“Washroom? Oh, bathroom. Sure. It’s right down that hallway,” the young designer replied. “Second door on the right. Excuse the mess.”

“No problem,” Mac assured her. To Reese, Mac’s voice sounded uncharacteristically breathy and tense, and he thought he saw a sheen of sweat appearing on her forehead. 

“Mac . . . “

“I'll take those,” MacKenzie interrupted him, pointing to one of the pairs of cuff-links. “Reese, will you pay? Please.”

Wow! He'd never seen Mac make up her mind quite like this about anything that didn't have to do with the news. “Of course. Mac, are you . . . alright?” But she rushed away before she could answer.

Inside the small bathroom, MacKenzie leaned up against the door trying the slow her breathing. She felt hot and lightheaded. She knew that she was sweating and her heart was pounding. The pain in her back had intensified and was moving around to the sides and front of her body. What’s more, it was starting to come in waves. It felt just like in the nightmares . . . just like in the the flashbacks. Mac sat on the toilet seat and tried to put her head between her legs as a wave of pain and lightheadedness swept through. She told herself that this was just another flashback and would pass. There had been three in the past week.

She fumbled in her purse and removed a small orange bottle with a white cap. It held seven tiny pills, each containing 37.5 mg. of Effexor XR. Danny had given them to her when she had called him in tears from her office during the second flashback. Mercifully, Will had been doing his final rundown before going on the air and wasn't aware of it. Danny had come to her office and reassured her that what she was experiencing weren't true PTSD flashbacks because she always retained the awareness of her present circumstances. They were more flashes of recalled memory, strong enough and upsetting enough to trigger a physical and emotional anxiety response. He had insisted that she keep the Effexor and told her to start taking them if she kept having “memory flashes” about Afghanistan. They were safe, he'd assured her, since the primary risk in pregnancy was miscarriage (“I think that we can conclude that ship has sailed, don't you Mac?”) and a few other issues that only occurred with prolonged use. But taking a page from Will’s book, she'd looked it up online and discovered that some babies born to mothers on Effexor showed signs of dependency and needed to “detox” after birth. Although she’d believed Danny when he'd said that those were cases where the mothers were taking much higher doses over many months, before today, Mac had never been tempted to take one. But the other times, she'd been in her office or at home. Now, she was here in a jewelry designer’s studio with Reese. She had to make this stop.

Mac stood up, swayed slightly, got the top off of the bottle and was looking for a glass when a strange sensation claimed all of her attention. Almost instinctively, she raised the toilet cover, pulled down her leggings and knickers and was about to sit down when a gush of liquid came from her body accompanied by a pain like the most intense menstrual cramp she had ever experienced. She sank the rest of the way down onto the toilet and panted through the pain the way the midwife teaching the Lamaze class had showed her. When she could get her breath again, Mac stood and looked into the toilet, expecting, she realized a moment later, to see blood. But there was no blood, only water. Water! Mac’s brain came out of the fog. Her water had broken. She was in labor. She was going to have the baby. She looked at the Effexor in her hand, took a deep breath and dropped it into the toilet. 

"Reese," MacKenzie began as she returned to the studio. “Can you get the car back?” He nodded and pulled out his phone. She was white as a sheet but seemed more composed than when she'd left. Still, he had the uncomfortable feeling that something he didn't completely understand was happening.

The driver’s phone rang and rang. What did he expect, he'd told Phil to take the time off. Over the rhythmic buzzing of the unanswered phone in his ear, Reese could hear Mac taking her leave of Gillian Shepard. Her voice sounded strained as she complimented the artist and assured her that Will would love the cuff links. Lady MacKenzie, he thought as a smile came to his lips, always the epitome of grace under pressure. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mac grab her stomach and double over as a grunting groan escaped her lips. He dropped his phone and lunged for her just as Shepard did the same from the other side. 

“My . . . water broke . . . I'm in . . . labor,” Mac panted. “My . . . phone . . . in . . . my . . . bag . . . bring up . . . Catherine . . . Barrington . . . please.

When the pain from the contraction eased, Mac spoke to both Catherine Barrington and Dan Shivitz and then told Reese that they had said that since her water had broken, she needed to go immediately to Beth Israel Hospital where Barrington would be waiting for her. Failing to reach Phil and finding that all of the other AWM cars had been checked out, Reese called a taxi.

As they inched their way through New York evening traffic in the back of the cab, Mac’s pain seemed to intensify. She was curled against Reese, taking shallow breaths punctuated every few minutes with groans. 

“Distract me,” she breathed after one particularly painful contraction. 

“Okay.”

“Is it true that you started in the ACN Mailroom, or is that just an urban legend?”

“Nope. It's absolutely true. Charlie’s idea, I think. If there’s one thing my mother and Charlie . . . my parents . . . enjoyed it was a good cliché.”

“I miss him so much. I want to be able to put little Charlie into his arms. I want him here . . . for her . . . for me . . . for Billy.”

I know, Mac. I know.”

Reese couldn't believe how slowly they seemed to be going. Traffic clogged the streets as they inched along block by block. He felt like he could pick Mac up and carry her to the hospital faster than they were going in the cab. She didn't seem to notice. He knew that the pains were getting worse.

“Jesus, Mac!” Reese exclaimed as they stopped at a red light about six blocks from Beth Israel. “Are you chewing my tie? It's Italian silk. Five hundred dollars worth of Italian silk!”

“Sorry,” Mac mumbled, trying to smooth away the wet tooth marks with her hand.

“Your wife's in labor, dickhead. Stop worrying about your f-ing tie,” the middle-aged cab driver volunteered loudly in a thick Bronx accent. 

“She’s not my wife . . . .” Reese started to correct the man.

“Okay, your girlfriend, then. Same difference.”

“Actually, I'm his best friend’s wife,” Mac said. 

“Where’s you husband?”

“Working.”

Reese didn't really care about his tie. He just felt terrified, helpless and overwhelmed with the feeling that he really wasn't up to this. “Mac,” he started to say, “after we get there and you get admitted, I'll go back and get Will . . . .”

A look of pure terror came over Mac’s face. “No. No,” she whispered, and he felt her hands begin to tremble as they clutched harder at his. “Please . . . please, don't leave me. Don't leave me . . . alone.” A new contraction started, and the last word came out as a whine.

Alone. In labor alone. Christ! I am a dickhead, Reese thought, clutching Mac to him and stroking her hair. “I won't. I won't leave you. You won't be alone, Mac, not for a second, I promise.” She turned her head up and smiled weakly. 

Four blocks from the hospital, Reese started timing Mac’s contractions. They were coming about six or seven minutes apart, as best as he could tell. In between, they argued about calling Will. Mac insisted that they wait until after B block aired. Reese insisted that Sloan could handle the show, that Will had told him that they'd been doing the scrips and rundowns together for the last four or five weeks so that Sloan could step in and everything would run seamlessly.

"Yes, but tonight is a major segment on Islamic fundamentalism, divided between the A and B block. Billy’s interviewing both Mahmoud Abbas and King Abdullah of Jordan. He's been working on his outline for days. Also, this is the first major segment Jim’s done alone without me or Don since he took over as EP of News Night. It will be hours before the baby’s born and . . . .”

“News Night?” the cab driver interrupted. “Did you say News Night? You married to that Will McAvoy? I always thought that guy had balls, taking on the Tea Party and going to jail and all.” He began to make a deep chuckling sound. “I guess our little trip here to the hospital proves that he does, eh?” He chuckled harder, obviously pleased with his own wit. “Balls . . . get it? You being pregnant and all.”

“Yes, I got it.” Mac replied, laughing and shaking her head.

They arrived at Beth Israel and were joined shortly after they emerged from Admitting by Catherine Barrington, who assured Mac that Dan Shivitz would be along shortly. As Mac had predicted, her labor progressed slowly, and after some coaching from Dr. Barrington, Reese proved to be an able partner. Mac continued to insist that Will not be called until the sixty second break after B block. Dan Shivitz arrived about ten minutes into Will’s broadcast and he, Reese, Mac and Catherine watched News Night in between Mac’s contractions. 

As soon as Will started to conclude B block, Reese reached for Mac’s phone, dialed the control room number, spoke briefly to Jim Harper, asked to be patched directly into Will’s ear, and then handed the phone to MacKenzie. 

“Billy, you were wonderful! Simply brilliant!”

“Mac! Where the hell are you?”

“Well, that’s also why I'm calling.” She could feel the contraction building, and started to talk very fast trying to give him her news before it overwhelmed her powers of speech. “I was out shopping and my water broke . . . “

“What!?!”

“Don't interrupt. Let me finish. I’m at Beth Israel . . . with Reese . . . . You need . . . Oh . . . Ah . . . . “

“Mac! Mac!” Will was practically screaming, as Reese’s voice filled his ear. “She's fine, but get your ass over here, McAvoy, or you’re going to miss the fun part.”


End file.
